Uncle M's address turned out to be a high-rise, part residential, part office building. All black glass and metal, but shaped like the big matchbox in which she had kept Stanley, her treasured cockroach, who ate lettuce, modeled her tattoo, and survived a whole year as her pet. Uncle M lived in the penthouse on the fortieth floor.
Today all the businesses were closed and the lobby empty. Just a security guard, clearly not giving thanks to be working on the holiday; he waved a dismissive hand when she told him who she was here to visit. He didn't bother to call upstairs.
Deena searched the elevators until she found the one that went to the penthouse. The walls rattled as she traveled up. For a moment she felt addled. She knew exactly why she had come; not because she was lonely, or grateful to Uncle M for the way he had fucked up the Hales. She was curious. This crap that he was three hundred years old—three hundred twenty three, whatever—it had to be a lie, but why would he even want to claim it? Why would anyone want to live that long? This last question roiled her brain.
When David Hale died, Deena was stunned to learn that he had left her money; not a huge amount, nothing compared to her siblings, but enough for her to afford roof and food for a while without turning tricks. This annoyed her—one last way for the bastard to control her—and at first she was determined to refuse it. But slowly a plan formed in her head: she would make the money last until her twenty-third birthday, and then she would end it. Herself. End what should never have been started, what never belonged here. And once she decided this, it was as if she was already dead. This curiosity about Uncle M was a reflex, the last twitch of a body soon to be still.
On Uncle M's floor, there was one door, directly opposite the elevator. The door was open; maybe the security guard had alerted him after all. An empty hallway flowed into a living room, except nothing lived there, Deena thought. OK, there were chairs, a couch, actually two arrangements of chairs and couches: it was a long room, with an endless window covered by the biggest curtain she'd ever seen. But no art on the walls, no objects on the coffee tables; no books, plants, or colors. And though this room led to other rooms, really it led nowhere. Every room felt like a waiting room designed to hide what you were waiting for. The space was huge but she kept feeling like she still hadn't entered Uncle M's apartment; there must be a door to the real home of this three-hundred-twenty-three-year-old man—she just couldn't find it.
And yet, from the moment she entered, she heard bubble, pound, whoosh, crackle—sounds of a brook maybe, trees shedding leaves in a brisk wind. She also heard the squishy murmur of people talking with their mouths full; she smelled turkey, stuffing, and sweet potatoes. But the kitchen was barren. The refrigerator contained only rows of bottled water. Wait—there was a plate of carrots, with their tails still attached; her cousin Betty, the only Hale with whom she stayed in touch, had said that as Uncle M was being thrown out last Thanksgiving, she had offered him some food to take, and the only thing he would accept was a carrot from the fridge. The sight of carrots now set Deena in motion; she strode back through the rooms, first urgently, then slowing down when confronted with the same blankness as before. She found herself back in the living room, near the hallway that led to the front door. She was heading for it when she heard: "Does it please you?"
Slowly Deena realized that the voice had come from one of the living-room chairs. Someone was in the chair, and now he was detaching himself from it and leaving it behind. Had he been there the whole time? The chair was off-white, with a faint blue running through its stripes, and this man, who must be Uncle M, seemed white and blue as well, as if he was nothing but veins and deoxygenated blood.
"Does what please me," she said. None of her questions sounded like questions anymore, as if being already dead pretty much answered everything.
"Our Thanksgiving."
She felt blank—stupid—and then realized what he meant. "I heard noises, that's why I barged through your place. And I smelled the food. But there's nobody home and there's nothing cooking."
It had taken him this long to slowly bridge the few feet between the chair and where Deena stood. Or did she even see him move? Abruptly he was right in front of her, smiling. "And is that not perfection?"
"Holidays are crap."
"But still," Uncle M said. At first he looked nothing like her father or any of the Hales. Or was there something, an indentation in his temples, which caused his eyes to seem intense, domineering? So maybe he shared that trait with her father, but unlike David Hale, Uncle M had one eyebrow set higher than the other. "Still, Deena, when you arrived, you felt it: Thanksgiving."
"I guess."
"The result of two CDs and one can of spray," said Uncle M.
"Well, whatever. Way to go, Dr. Pavlov."
He chuckled. "You're calling it reflex. I call it mood. One thing I've learned, after three hundred Thanksgivings, is that all is mood. To experience things is to feel them. Indeed, it's better to feel them without having to do them. In this case, cooking, eating, cleaning up..."
"Well, sometimes you get hungry." Did she just say that? She hadn't eaten since yesterday morning.
"For turkey?" Uncle M's eyebrow arched higher. "But are you not a vegan?"
Deena was about to ask who told him that, but then sensed that Uncle M wanted her to, so she wouldn't. Which annoyed her: still doing the opposite of what people want, instead of what you want. A slave to the end.
"Yeah, OK, I'm vegan," she said. "And I brought food." She slipped off her backpack and unzipped the top. She removed two plates covered in clear plastic; one held a bright orange and white cake, the other a turkey paler than her.
"Oh my!" Uncle M said.
"Tofu turkey," she explained. "And that's all-carrot angel food cake. No eggs or sugar, it sounds puke but it tastes awesome. So happy Thanksgiving...and happy birthday."
"Thank you, Deena. I am touched," Uncle M said. He opened his arms for a hug.
